The Silent Children

by Amna K. Boheim

  I should be dead, she thinks, but somehow she clings on. It’s because of Max, people tell her, her little boy, who came back from the edge of death. You wouldn’t know he had escaped the serious car crash, what with the way he runs about in the garden, two sticks clutched in his hands, shouting, yelling, screaming. How can he forget so quickly? Though Annabel tries hard to quell her anger, she can’t help but feel it simmer within her. She swallows – the ulcers on her tongue pinch at the saliva in her mouth. Settling herself on the sofa like an elderly woman, Annabel’s a far cry from the person who had a spring in her step just a few months before.

  Bubbles of laughter draw her gaze to the French windows. Bundled in a navy-blue jacket and the bright red scarf that Ludmilla knitted him, Max is still all legs and arms, although the kugel belly Annabel was fond of kissing after his bath has returned. And the love she has for him stirs deep in her womb, like one of his kicks when he was still inside her. Annabel’s heart swells and beats again. And again. And again. Yes, my dearest boy, meine Maus, I’ll get better. For you.

  More of his boyish chatter trickles through. Much of it is pure nonsense and Annabel smiles, her eyes following him as he leaps back, then stops, a frown on his face, his head shaking, saying no. What’s he saying no to? She has no idea, but she delights in his imagination, which has proven to be as inventive as her own. Pushing his long dark fringe out of his eyes he takes two steps towards whichever imaginary foe he’s confronting, and as he parries with one of his sticks she briefly remembers the little boy she had once played with, whose name she can’t for the life of her remember.

  Max is talking again, his aqua eyes narrowing, his face scowling. Regarding this little theatrical show of his, she has the urge to join him, to take him in her arms, to shower him in kisses she knows he’ll squirm from. Annabel doesn’t care that it’s cold outside, that she’s just recovered from a prolonged chest infection. Annabel pulls on her slippers and goes to the French windows. Unlocking them, she hesitates, her breath catching in her throat. The curtain cuts off part of the scene, but she sees – she’s sure of it – the twist of a black ragged dress. She draws back the curtain. Her hand is shaking as it goes to her chest, then her mouth. She sees a girl, raven-haired, rakish, with skin as grey as the winter sky, wandering towards the back of the garden. And Max is skipping after her.

  No. Annabel shakes her head. No. No, no, no, no!

  She wrenches the door open and races outside, across the terrace and on to the grass, the damp seeping through her slippers, her dressing gown coming undone and flying wildly out behind her.

  ‘Max!’

  Oblivious to his mother’s shouts, Max trots down the garden towards the back wall, which the girl scales and glides over, disappearing out of view. Annabel watches in horror as Max drops his sticks, reaches for the wall and begins to scramble up without any fear for his own safety.

  Annabel’s heart lurches as though someone is trying to yank it from her body. She screams but no sound comes from her mouth. She can’t run any faster. She slips and falls, mud splattering her face and her eyes. Grappling to get up, she screams again, ‘Max. Stop!’ But by this time, Max has pulled himself up to the top of the wall. Crouching down, he peers over the edge. Then he stands up with an ease and poise that he’s never had before, unperturbed by the sheer drop on the other side.

  You’re not taking him away from me!

  Annabel sees her precious son, his back towards her, teeter on the wall just as she draws near, panting, fighting for breath. She grabs him firmly by the waist and hauls him down.

  Down they both tumble. She is holding him so tight she’s afraid she’ll suffocate him.

  ‘Who were you talking to?’ she asks him. She can’t keep the panic out of her voice and she catches the fear in his wide eyes, brimming with tears and hurt. ‘Who were you talking to?’ Oh, she wishes she could speak more softly, that she could whisper, as she sees the tremble of his bottom lip.

  Through his tears, he blurts out the name of his dead friend: ‘Chanoo.’

  Guilt mixed with melancholy douse her and she rocks Max gently in her arms. ‘I’m sorry, meine Maus. So sorry.’

  As she strokes his hair and kisses his head, her mind rushes through the ways she can protect him. From the top of the garden she hears Vivienne calling. Her friend would understand if Annabel asked her to take care of him. She’ll come up with something plausible. And in that instant, she knows it’s her only choice. The realisation drives a knife into Annabel’s heart, the blade twisting until the pain is unbearable.

  Crumpling against her son, she cries out because now she understands the wrenching hurt her Mama felt when they took her away all those years ago.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Felix Llewellyn, a friend of Oskar’s, came to Vienna to collect his body. The British Embassy had stepped in and arranged the handover to an English coroner. Based on the full autopsy report, it was likely that Oskar’s death would be ruled the result of a heart attack. Felix wanted to meet me, but I told him I was unavailable. I couldn’t bring myself to face him and admit what I still believed to be my culpability in Oskar’s death. The day before Felix flew back, he telephoned me. Being as considerate as he could, he asked me what had happened. Angela had given him some details, painting too glowing a picture of my character for my liking, and telling him about Oskar’s search for the truth. I repeated the same story I had told Thomas Schmidt and Vivienne.

  ‘No one’s blaming you,’ said Felix. ‘If anyone’s to blame it’s Oskar. He never should have got on that flight in the first place.’ Then he told me that Oskar wished to be cremated. ‘Like his wife. He wanted his ashes scattered off Prussia Cove. It’ll be a small ceremony, quiet – just as he planned. Please join us.’

  ‘I’m not sure …’

  ‘Oskar would’ve wanted you to be there.’

  Quelling the choke in my voice I promised I’d think about it. ‘Before you go,’ I went on, ‘there’s a painting my family had. There’s a chance it belonged to Oskar.’ I described the Schiele and asked for details of Oskar’s lawyer in London.

  ‘But are you quite sure?’ he asked.

  The press soon got wind of the news that a child’s skeleton had been found in my mother’s house, and that my grandfather was allegedly involved in the deaths of three other children. Headlines ranged from the mundane to the extreme: The Dis-Trust of Albrecht! Albrecht: Lies Lies Lies! They raided archives for images of both my grandparents, but their favourite – it appeared most days – was one of my grandfather dressed in hunting regalia and brandishing a shotgun. The news spread beyond Austria’s borders. Tanned anchormen and women endlessly analysed and discussed the case, as well as The Albrecht Trust, my grandparents, my mother and me.

  I tried not to pay much attention to it – until journalists discovered I was staying close by, after which they set up camp outside Vivienne’s house, impatient for a glimpse and a sound bite. They were hard to ignore. Frederik got involved when the public and politicians called for an investigation into allegations of child sexual abuse at The Albrecht Trust. As a trustee, he did his best to limit the damage, organising a publicity campaign to highlight its history of good work and exemplary standards. Tempers flared. Frederik and Schmidt had a heated exchange over the leak about the skeleton. I stepped in and we agreed to issue a joint statement. With the discovery of Eva’s remains and the news centring on my grandfather, Oskar’s passing went almost unnoticed, enabling us to keep his death relatively concealed from the public. But no matter how we spun the rest of the story, it always came across as sensationalist. And in the end we had no choice but to hold court to the press.

  The three of us stood in fresh snowfall outside Vivienne’s gate. Schmidt spoke first, and before I knew it, it was my turn. I read out some lines that Frederik had drafted. Although I had learnt the words off by heart, I still held the piece of paper in front of me as a distraction from the sea of faces.

  ‘We want to be clear,’
I said, ‘that during the period in which The Albrecht Trust had the children under its care, they did not come to harm. Sebastian Albrecht was never involved on a day-to-day basis – he merely gave his name to the organisation. Since the war, and since my mother Annabel Albrecht took over, the Trust has grown from strength to strength, becoming a beacon of charitable care for women and children.’ There was more, but the flash of cameras, the clamour of questions interrupted my flow.

  ‘When did you come to know about all this?

  ‘Just a few days ago,’ I said.

  ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘We can’t comment on that at this point in time.’

  ‘Did your mother suffer at the hands of your grandfather?’

  Faltering, I shot a cold stare at the anonymous reporter, certain that my face had the truth written all over it.

  When my ex-boss saw the impromptu news conference on CNN he called me, wanting to know whether everything was okay. I was half truthful, telling him, between his mutterings of Jesus H. Christ, that I was shaken but all right. Before he hung up, he mentioned he was leaving my old firm too and that he planned to set up a corporate finance advisory business.

  ‘I’d like you to join me,’ he said. ‘As a partner.’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Just think about it.’

  I told him I would, in my own time.

  Lana also phoned me. ‘I’ll be here, when you need me,’ she said. ‘Whenever you’re ready.’ And that was all I wanted to know, that perhaps there was an opening, another chance for us.

  The reality was that Oskar’s passing dominated my mind. I couldn’t bring myself to venture near Himmelhofgasse either. It was genuine fear that held me back – fear of confronting the cadaver of my ancestral home, fear of reliving what had happened to Oskar, fear of seeing Eva again. On the one occasion I did leave Vivienne’s, I went directly to Hietzinger Hauptstrasse, rather than veer towards Adolfstorgasse or beyond. And I was painfully aware of my loss of privacy. Well-meaning people passing in the street gave me brief smiles or nods; in Biedermayer and other shops, people asked me how I was. All I could do was mumble a few assurances, desperate to get back to Vivienne’s.

  Immediately after Christmas Day, Vivienne and I decided to go away for a while. At the last minute, we went to the alpine town of Kitzbühel. A friend of a friend arranged for us to stay at the Tennerhof. Of course Vivienne didn’t ski any more, but she didn’t mind – she just needed a change of scenery. My injuries had improved and I went out skiing most mornings, joining Vivienne in the afternoons for walks along the river.

  We made a pledge to not talk about what had happened. On the first day, the effort not to mention it left our conversation stilted as we tiptoed around the subject, afraid to stir up memories we’d rather forget. But thereafter, we managed to find other things to chat over, and returned to near normal topics of politics, business, the Albertina and books. I even got round to buying her a belated Christmas gift – a sky-blue cashmere shawl that I hoped would replace the green one she wore most days.

  Some friends of mine were also in Kitzbühel. They invited me to their house for a New Year’s Eve party. Given recent events I was tempted to shy away, but just a few days earlier a massive earthquake had struck in the Indian Ocean. It was the only thing people were talking about, and eclipsed everything that had happened to me. So, cajoled by Vivienne, I changed my mind and went to the party after all. My friends put a makeshift donations box in the hallway. By midnight, close to five thousand euros had been collected. The loss of life, irrespective of where it was, put things into perspective, not just for me, but for everyone at the party. When we later went out to see the fireworks, we watched them jewel the night sky with muted cheer. Standing on my friends’ terrace I made one wish: to somehow find the means to move on, to get on with my life. My mother had; Oskar had. So could I.

  A week later, we returned to Vienna feeling the better for our time away. I received a phone call from Schmidt with a brief update, but he had nothing new to tell me, other than who had been the source of the leak to the press about the skeleton.

  ‘It came from a member of my team – he was pissed that he missed out on promotion.’

  I thought Schmidt might have wanted to discuss the messages on the reverse of the photograph and in the novel, but he didn’t mention them. ‘One day, though, I’ll get to the bottom of the whole thing,’ he said, before ending the call. That was the last time I heard from him.

  Frederik also called to see how things were. His manner towards me had softened again. I half expected him to revert to his usual distant self, but his continued goodwill seemed to suggest otherwise. I told him I wanted his help to retrieve the Schiele from storage and to discuss a couple of other things, so the day before my flight back to London, I went to his office.

  Although it was a Monday, he was dressed casually in corduroys and a dove-grey cashmere sweater worn over a pristine white shirt. The Stepford wife assistant was absent.

  ‘I’ve made some changes,’ he said. ‘I’ve decided to take a back seat – let a couple of others take the helm. Let’s call it a New Year’s resolution.’

  He signalled for me to follow him to his office. I sat down on an armchair beside the bookshelf.

  ‘The Albrecht Trust – it’s taken up a lot of my time,’ he said, lowering himself into a chair next to mine.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about that,’ I said, helping myself to some water. ‘I think we should change the name of the Trust.’

  ‘I see.’ He crossed his legs. ‘On what basis?’

  ‘It’s obvious – the association with my grandfather’s name.’

  ‘Do you think it’s necessary?’

  ‘Tell me you’re kidding? What with the media, the remains found in the house, my grandmother’s letter …’

  He said nothing as he stared back at me.

  His reaction unnerved me but I refused to let it weaken my resolve. ‘You’re one of the trustees, you can propose it.’

  He leaned back in his chair. ‘What would you suggest?’

  ‘Anything that’s as far removed from that name as possible. I don’t know – The Children’s Trust or something.’

  ‘But it’s for women too,’ Frederik said with a slow blink.

  ‘It’s the spirit of it, that’s all. Look, it’s just a suggestion. I’m sure there are better names out there. But not Albrecht.’

  ‘Very well, but I don’t think now’s a good time to do this.’

  I stood up, digging my hands into my pockets. ‘I disagree, Frederik. I don’t want some sensational news story killing off the Trust on account of a name. And I want to do something in memory of those children.’ That seemed to have got his attention. ‘I thought …’ I swallowed. ‘I thought about turning the site where the house stood into a garden, open to the public – a family space with a playground and so on. But I wouldn’t know where to start.’ I looked down at my shoes, then at Frederik. ‘Will you help me?’

  He rubbed his chin. ‘So you won’t rebuild?’

  I shook my head.

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘If that’s what you want, then yes, I can assist,’ he said eventually. ‘It’s a pity,’ he added.

  ‘You went back there?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You know the art was stored away – the Schiele and the others – don’t you?’

  ‘Mama never mentioned that the originals were in storage – and neither did you.’

  ‘You were slightly distracted at the time. I assumed you’d look through everything at your leisure.’

  I shook my head again.

  ‘The Dorotheum arranged it all,’ he said. ‘You should have a letter with all the contact details.’

  When I explained the Schiele may have belonged to Oskar’s family before the war, Frederik didn’t comment, but he seemed to close in on himself, folding his arms, giving a slow nod of his head. I wasn’t sure why he was reacting that way but
I gave it no more thought. I was more concerned with how I was going to present my next question. My gaze skimmed along the rows of books, lingering on the photograph of him and my mother on the middle shelf.

  ‘Why are you really here, Max?’ he suddenly asked.

  His question made me smart for some reason, and I sat down again. Frederik took off his glasses, put them on the coffee table and rubbed his eyes. In that moment, he seemed to have aged ten years.

  ‘In the last letter my grandmother sent to Claudia Edelstein, she made reference to sending her son Thaddäus away.’ I brushed imaginary fluff off my trouser leg. ‘What if he never died as a baby?’ I looked up.

  Something close to panic skittered across Frederik’s eyes. ‘Do you realise the absurdity of what you’ve just said?’

  I carried on with my theory. ‘What if he was sent away to safety and my grandmother was never able to fetch him because she was sent away? I want to disinter his body – I need to know what happened to him.’

  Frederik swiped his glasses from the coffee table. He didn’t put them back on, just held them in his hand. ‘Your grandmother had a mental breakdown. She killed her son. What are you hoping to find? An empty coffin?’

  About to utter a defensive retort, I stopped and looked at him. I was certain Vivienne said that no one else knew about the real reason behind Thaddäus’s death. ‘How did you know she killed him?’ I asked.

  He glanced away from me, his hand opening and closing over his glasses like a clam.

  ‘What else do you know?’ I was determined to get to the truth. My patience was wearing thin and he took too long to answer me. ‘Frederik?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ I said. ‘Give me the condensed version, if that helps.’

  He leaned forward, his fingers rubbing the bridge of his nose. ‘Very well.’ The phone rang. He hazarded a glance at me, then looked over at it but didn’t get up. When the ringing stopped, he began.